EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (58 page)

‘Can I touch them now?’

‘Yes. With no wounds, there should be nothing to fear.’

My eyelids were smooth and framed by long lashes that tickled my fingers as I traced the grooves where the top and bottom lids met. There was resistance as I tried to part them. I took a deep breath and put even more pressure on the crease. I felt a small rip of skin, and light flooded my eyes. I breathed sharply at the sensation that was more discomfort than pain. I saw a yellow light. It wasn’t red or black or maroon. My eyes ached a little, so I closed them again.

‘What can you see?’

Wanting to give him an answer other than ‘yellow,’ I tried to reopen them, but without using my fingers. I pushed through the overwhelming light and blinked several times to sharpen my focus, but the lantern in the room put everything into shadow.

‘The lamp,’ I said. ‘It’s too bright.’

‘Really? But it’s so dark in here. My eyes are struggling to make you out.’ He chuckled.

I tried opening one eye at a time, beginning with my right. At first, all I could see was the yellow blur, and then my left eye opened, and the bright light increased. The lamp was the problem.

‘Can you blow it out?’

‘The lamp? Of course.’

When the light disappeared, a blotch remained in my vision. Strangely, when I closed my eyes, the blotch stayed, though it had begun to shrink. When I opened my eyes again, the room was still grey, but blurry grey, and black shapes emerged from the thick. Varago moved to my right, and I looked at him. I could make out his head and shoulders; I could see that his hair was curly and his ears quite large. Light from underneath my bedroom door cast his torso into silhouette.

‘I can see you, a little,’ I said.

‘Excellent. Would you like me to relight the lamp?’

‘Yes. Wait. No, maybe open the door.’

‘I will be right back. Your mother and Jemely are waiting anxiously downstairs. Should I send them up?’

‘Not yet. Is that all right?’

‘Certainly.’ He got to his feet, and he seemed tall. But having not seen a person for many years, I wasn’t sure how tall he was compared to the average man. He walked towards my bedroom door. ‘You might want to shut your eyes. This will let in a lot of light.’

I didn’t listen to him, and as he opened my bedroom door, the light did strain my eyes, but not enough to make me shut them. It illuminated the brown of my floor, the grey of the walls, and other objects in my room.

‘I’ll be right back.’

He closed the door a little when he moved away. I had to make myself breathe. My heart was pounding. A smile stretched across my lips, and I shivered.

Moments later, Varago returned, leaving the door open. Deep lines and sagging skin framed eyes that balanced above prominent cheek bones. His hair was receding, and his shirt hung from a trim upper body. He placed the lamp beside my bed and stared at me. I wasn’t sure what I should do or say.

‘Hello, Adenine,’ Creases formed at the edges of his mouth. His top lip curled upwards, revealing a row of yellow teeth.

‘You’re old,’ I blurted and brought my hand to my mouth.

His head tilted back, and laughter escaped his lips. I thought I heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and I closed my eyes and turned my head to listen. Alongside the footsteps was another noise, a scraping, thumping noise I knew well. Mother was fighting her way up to see me.

‘Here they come,’ he said, chuckling.

The door flew open, and two figures entered. Mother scooted across the floor at an impressive speed. Jemely froze near the door.

Varago helped Mother climb up and sit on the end of my bed.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mother said. ‘I just couldn’t bear it hearing you laugh, Varago. I knew it meant something good was happening. Adenine, can you see me?’ Mother waved her hands at me. She stared at me expectantly.

‘Oh, look at those glowing eyes!’ Jemely said. ‘They’re as precious as gems. With a face like that, she’d be sport for the boys in town.’

Mother’s hair had become coarse. Her smooth skin was wrinkled like Varago’s, but her stark brown eyes were as young as ever. Her cheeks showed a little red under the yellow lamp light, but other parts of her were shadowed.

‘Take the cover off the window,’ I said.

Jemely raced over to the window and yanked off the cover. Every angle, every nook and line and curve of the room was exposed. And in the foreground of my vision, Mother’s eyes glistened with tears.

‘Can you see all right?’ Varago asked.

I looked at him. He was seated on a chair he’d brought up from the living room. He was leaning forwards, his hands clasped together, his lips in a thin line, and I tried to figure out what he was feeling by looking at him. It was hard. I wasn’t accustomed to it. I closed my eyes for a moment, the whole scene freezing in my mind while I made sense of it all.

When I opened them Jemely peered at me, hands on her hips. ‘See? I bet you weren’t eager to see the ugly likes of me.’

Jemely’s long wavy hair curved around her freckled face. Her dress struggled to cover a large bosom that made her hips look small. Her ears stuck out like a rat’s, and her eyes were almond-shaped like Varago’s. When she smiled, I saw that her teeth were straight, but there was a gap in the bottom row. Her angular face was so striking that I couldn’t understand how anyone could find her ugly.

‘No. Jemely, you’re not ugly,’ I said.

She laughed, took a step forward, and stretched out her hand. I watched her fingers come towards me. The movement was so odd that I was mesmerised by it until her hand moved out of sight and she touched my head.

I looked at Mother. She hadn’t moved an inch. I shuffled down the bed until I was within her reach. Tears dripped down her cheeks. She wiped at them with the back of her hand and then wiped her hand on a black apron that she wore over her flowery dress.

‘Do you feel all right?’ she asked.

In that moment, I wanted to close my eyes again, the colours and patterns of the room seemed to dull the fullness of her voice. It used to have a rich, womanly sound, but at that moment, it sounded far away, one voice competing for clarity against others. My vision seemed to be distracting my ears.

I nodded, and her hand went to my face. She pulled me into an embrace and burst into sobs. Love filled every inch of me, and the moment was perfect. I squeezed Mother tighter and rubbed a hand up her back to comfort her. How I’d missed seeing her beautiful face.

Jemely sniffled a little too, then looked away, saying, ‘Well, I gots work downstairs. See you later, missy.’ She waved at me. I understood what waving meant, but seeing it was bizarre. She closed the bedroom door behind her. My eyes began to ache, and I rubbed at them.

‘What is it?’ Varago asked.

‘They’re sore.’

‘I should expect so. Would it be better if I covered the window back up?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Are you hungry?’ Mother asked.

I shook my head.

‘She’ll be a tired little mouse for a bit. Give her time,’ Varago said, and he gave her a smile so warm, so tender, that I felt as if I’d intruded on an unspoken conversation. I was surprised to see Mother looking at him the exact same way.

‘Butter needs to eat,’ she said.

‘He’s here?’

‘Yes. Downstairs. He’s still very sore. Klawdia brought him over this morning.’

‘I have to see him,’ I said, realising I was hungry after all.

After talking to and petting Butter, I spent the rest of my morning exercising my eyelids.

Open. Close. Open. Close.

They had stopped aching, and my surroundings became less overwhelming. No longer squinting in the bright light, I was able to focus on individual features of the house. The colours danced with hues and shades. There was so much detail in simple things, like the knots in the wood in the ceiling and the different variations of brown in a wooden plate. I made a game of counting the cracks and dents in our stone floor near the hearth.

I explored the kitchen. Vibrant-colored vegetables and fruits—green, red, orange and brown—sat on bowls and plates. Hanging above the kitchen bench were the metal hooks holding rabbits, pigs, and chickens. Having used the kitchen many times over the past year, I was already aware of most that the room contained. But seeing it with my eyes felt different.

I reached out and held what I recognised as a wooden spoon. But when I closed my eyes and passed the shape between my hands, it felt more like a spoon than ever. I would have to get used to putting sight to objects.

The decorations collected over Mother’s and Father’s trade journeys were breathtaking and wondrous. I had forgotten the depth to material things, and I wondered if it was simply the newness that made everything seem so alive. Further explorations revealed that the closer I was to a piece of furniture, painting, statue, or other object, the sharper the image it provided. Whenever I walked into a room, objects rich in colour were the first to attract my attention. Mother’s closet, for instance, seemed especially green. She told me it had been painted, and the green used for it was called Springtime Grass.

Mother’s blanket was embroidered. I recognised the pictures stitched into the fabric depicted people dressed in flowing gowns and the figures’ necklaces, rings, tiaras and earrings were real jewels glued to the blanket. Hanging on the walls in the bedroom were large golden frames surrounded by pictures of wild animals. Printed tapestries displayed scenes of battles, feasting lords, and gallant knights.

Mother beamed as she fetched a charcoal sketch of her and Father that an artist from Bivinia had made for them. ‘This was made twenty-five years ago, before the Wicked King fell out of grace with the fair Bivinians.’

‘I remember this,’ I said, tracing a finger down a patch containing no charcoal. In the drawing, Mother was smiling, but Father’s face contained only a smirk. His eyes set my mind to the past when he’d still been alive. Bothered by the way it made me feel, I turned away.

‘I miss him too,’ she said.

I didn’t tell her that guilt was what I felt. How I wished I had died instead of him.

Hanging above the embroidered blanket was a complex arrangement of wheels and metal that made up the pulley system Mother used to get in and out of bed. It was an eyesore compared to the richly decorated room. Outside the bedroom, next to the steps leading down into Mystoria, was the bathing tub. It was childish to have feared it, but somehow it had come to represent all that troubled me. I was older, taller, and smarter, and I saw it for what it was: a simple object that people washed in, no longer the symbol of tragedy. I looked at the stone floor. The bloodstain had long since been cleaned, but I could still see the brush strokes of red made by my father as he dragged my uncle into the next room.

Seeing again brought difficulties. Watching my feet step out in front of me was odd, as if they were not mine but a stranger’s. Mother gave me indecipherable looks at times, and I constantly asked her for her thoughts. Eventually, she put me in a chair, sat across from me, and animated her face with many different expressions. Having relied solely on my hearing for three years meant I’d forgotten how to read faces.

‘Communication is more than words,’ Mother told me.

I applied that phrase to every interaction I had from that moment on. Thankfully, whenever I became overwhelmed, I only had to shut my eyes, and the world became less chaotic.

I noted the stairs leading upwards to the attic. Earlier that morning, I had been so eager to see Butter I had missed the details of my staircase. The hallway seemed narrow and small. When I was six, I would stand in the middle of one stair and put my arms out wide; my fingertips would barely scrape the framing walls. I ascended the steps, stretched out my arms, and my elbows touched the sides.

I stepped up to the door of my attic room and pulled the latch. Inside, white blurry threads hung from dusty railings.
Cobwebs
. I shuddered.

My bed seemed small and lonely in the centre of the large room. I had forgotten how the ceiling tilted at an angle, and seeing it again brought back memories of lying in bed while Mother and Father tucked me in. I’d always hated it when they said goodnight. I had comforted myself by counting the grooves between the wooden slats.

The dirty attic window let in filtered light. I wiped it with the sleeve of my dress and peered outside. I could make out the houses, shops, and stalls below. The town had changed a little. A few houses were a different colour, and some stalls were missing. There were tiny patches of white on the roofs where overnight snow had collected.

I sat down on my bed and hugged my legs up against my chest. I wanted a new life, something exciting, something perfect. I had dreamed of another life while playing with my toys, which were currently stacked, lonely and neglected, in the corner of the room.

Mourning the loss of my childhood days made me think about the future. Soon I would leave. My first priority was to get away from Healer Euka. I didn’t want to be stuck in some city far away. I didn’t want to be a northerner, hated by southerners. I didn’t want to be a healer. I couldn’t… didn’t want men, or anyone, to touch me in that way.